


The Way The War Was Won

by haaarrison (kaaaaitie), kaaaaitie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Homeless Sherlock, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock gets beat up a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaaaaitie/pseuds/haaarrison, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaaaaitie/pseuds/kaaaaitie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's three-year journey after his "death", his ultimate goal being the take-down of Sebastian Moran and the rest of Jim Moriarty's criminal web. On his way, he runs into some familiar faces and some not-so familiar faces, to say the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Hello._

_Are you ready for the story? This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot._

  
_Sir Boast-a-lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the round table, but soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories about how 'brave' he was and how many dragons he'd slain, and some of them began to wonder,_ "Are Sir Boast-a-lot's stories even true?"

  
 _Oh, no._

  
_So, one of the knights went to King Arthur and said, "I don't believe Sir Boast-a-lot's stories. He's just a big, old liar who makes things up to make himself look good." And then, even the king began to wonder._

  
_But that wasn't the end of Sir Boast-a-lot's problems. No. That wasn't the final problem._

  
_The End._

* * *

Who knew that what was seemingly supposed to be the afterlife could take such a toll on a person? I suppose not many have experienced my case, though. Not that they'd want to (could I really blame them?). It started years ago, all thanks to a man called John Watson. He had been brought to me by a man named Stamford, and though I never really desired a companionship with the man, he was always... tolerable to have as company. (You'd be surprised.) Little did I know, this battered, exhausted, ex-military man named John Watson was going to have much more of an impact than even I could have began to imagine. The time between the two of us progressed, and we became that of inseperable. I didn't mind. I liked John. He was a good man, really. He was there for me when it was desired and found solace and happiness in things that ordinary people couldn't even begin to appreciate. The thing about him, though, was the fact that John wasn't afraid of the ugly. He was there for the relapses and the Danger Nights and the experiments-gone-wrong, and everything in between. 

There's certain happenings that are caused by others in a person's life that causes you to really, immensely appreciate the other person in a way that you didn't necessarily think was even close to being possible. Getting your life saved by them is definitely counted as one of those happenings, at least in my book. John did that in particular, and in more than just the way that he thought. As time progressed between us, there was something unspoken that began to grow, that flourished into something that I feel caught us both off guard. It wasn't a bad thing, though, of course not. Silently, unspokingly, we had come to the universal conclusion that we _needed_ each other. The broken soldier and the insufferable detective. 

God forbid something good happens and God forbid that it's actually existent for long enough that a person can _enjoy_ it.

  
At a certain point, there was a time where that all slowly began to dissipate away from me. A point where leaving became so inevitable that I knew it was the only way that there was going to be some sort of possibility of allowing this to continue, even far in the future.

We had come in contact with a man who called himself Moriarty. The "presence" of this man (if he could be described as such) was described as nothing but whispers -- indirect contacts, messages. He knew more about us then we knew about him, which was unsettling all in itself. We eventually got to him, the two of us. Though I'd never admit it, he made life as much of a living hell as one could imagine. It was a feat all on it's own, admittedly. But, we did it. I'm never one to turn down a new game, a good challenge. That's all he saw it as, anyways. A game. We were the pawns, the puppets, all while he played the marionette. He was figuratively that of a monster a young child would find underneath their beds or lurking in the shadows of their closets, and, by God, did he know that. Relished it, in fact. Cherished and fed off of the fear that he harvested from others. Some, though, were seemingly brave enough to ask him for help (if you could call his services something like that). _Consulting criminal_ , he called himself. _I'm a specialist, you see. Like you._

One did not search out Moriarty, nor did one attempt to find Moriarty. Moriarty found you. Never once was it the other way around, regardless of how badly you wished it could be so. (Trust someone with the experience. Save yourself the effort. Not that you have much to worry about at this point.) He became my greatest adversary -- my only adversary. We challenged each other in ways that were incomprehensible. That's who we were. 

_(You need me, or you're nothing.)_

He was the one that drove me to where I am now. Moriarty wasn't just a singular being, oh, no. Moriarty was a web, a control panel that had power over hundreds, if not thousands, of employees, stationed all over the globe. 

 

_(A spider. A spider in the center of a web.)_

  
We drove each other to our breaking point, Moriarty and I. Though, one half was much less fortunate than the other. That's the satisfaction of putting on an act for most of your life -- you learn to think on your toes. You learn to take advantage of those when they aren't watching, abling yourself the advantage in certain situations.

  
To put it lightly: what is left physically of Moriarty as a person is probably sitting unwaveringly at the bottom of the Thames.

  
And me? Well... it's amazing what you can get away with when you have careful hands, a careful brain, and willing help.

Though, there is a catch.

  
James Moriarty left an entire empire behind him. His employees, his plans, his entire life's work, it would seem like. People who had been working for the same sadistic, twisted man for their entire lives, almost (I wouldn't be surprised.). Research was done and the only lead we got on this empire was a man by the name of Sebastian Moran. A man with military history involving the 1st Bungalore Pioneers, cast out by 'dishonourable discharge'. I suppose one in Moriarty's shoes would see the appeal. They had a history, Moriarty and Moran. One could even consider Moran his right-hand man. Moran was the violin and Moriarty was the musician.

It's been assumed that Moran had taken over what Moriarty left -- every employee, every business connection, everything. All of the threats, the scandals. Now all in the hands of a man with a god complex and a trigger addiction. The one thing about this man of mystery, though, is that he is just that. A man with the power to disappear when desired, and one who isn't afraid to put on a good show, just like every other good magician.

  
Though, in reality, all magicians do is lie. And between every lie, there is a method to the madness. A plan.


	2. January 15th // January 16

I'm not quite sure what causes me to open my eyes. The air around me is thin, quiet, the only sound being heard is the slight rustle of the fabric around my ears.  
I don't know where I am or where they have taken me -- where she has taken me -- and for once, I don't care. I know that by this point, my mind should be buzzing with scenarios and plans and 'What should I do?'s but

I.

  
Just.

  
Don't.

  
Care.

  
It's dark underneath my covering but I can tell that there are wandering, worried eyes on me. (Something you think that I would be used to by now.) (I always hated it.) On my right side, I can hear the faint sound of soft, careful (tentative) steps.

  
"Sherlock?"

  
Before my eyes have time to adjust, there's a sound of a 'ziiip' as they pull down the center of the body bag, and everything is so bright and white that I want nothing more than to curl up inside of myself. I don't know what prompts me, but my torso leans up, a sharp breath leaving my lips, as if I had been holding it for ages. There's a cool, wet trickle down the side of my face, and my fingers come up to touch it, as if it holds the reality that this is actually happening and that I am actually here and that I am alone.

  
 _(Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.)_

My eyes finally look up, wandering about the room. It's unfamiliar. Darker than other rooms in the building, crowded with mail bins and empty boxes, a soft light radiating from the side of the room. Basement?

  
I can hear a franticness of sounds above us, sirens and crowds. Surely they would have disappated by now.

  
How long has it been?

  
A few hours, at least.

  
The drugs lasted enough for them to look me over, identify me. The sounds cause my stomach to somersault.

  
"It's night time, now." The tiny voice says.

  
More than just a few hours, apparently. Lestrade and the others have been to the scene already, then. Made their calls and their arrangements. Soon enough, there will be a gathering at an empty grave as the closest I have (had?) mourn around an empty casket, spewing off sentiments as tears well in their eyes and fall down their cheeks. The voice continues.

  
"Y-Your brother will be back soon to pick you up. When they... when he came by..."

 

I manage to swing my legs over the side of the gurney, everything about me feeling heavy with sleep and drowsiness. What comes next stings in a special way. Either they know that, or are too oblivous to begin with.

 

"... h-he was alone."

  
 _(Wrong. Friends protect people.)_

  
There's a silence that falls between us, a small sound of them swallowing nervously the only thing invading the pause. My chest feels tight, stinging me with the finality that loneliness is something that is inevitable at this point. (I never wanted to be alone.) My mind is a haze. I attempt to think back to the past three years, the brightness, the liveliness, the feeling of being _needed_ _\--_

  
The tightness seems to inch it's way up to my throat.

  
"I-I'll just... You... I'm... I'll go." The voice drips with thick (unfortunate) sympathy as the steps begin to scurry away towards the door, but something inclines me to turn my head towards them -- towards her, my lips finally forming something as close to a coherent thought that I can manage at this point.

"Molly."

  
She quickly turns, an eagerness in her movements ( _eager to get away or to come back?_ ).

  
"Thank you."

* * *

"My opinions on the matter still have not changed."

  
"You're acting as if I'm expecting them to. We all know how you're one for cooperation." His teeth grit. Some things never change. As much as I hate to admit it, I admire a number of the constants in my life. The bitterness my brother sends me is one of them. A good actor always needs a good number of support to keep them on their toes -- to challenge them. My life with Mycroft has always been just that -- one, long, mildly-comedic act.

  
He's not looking at me, and we both know that I know why (I always know). The same familiar, scolding look that usually took place in his eyes has burnt out, the ice melted. There's so much doubt and worry that it would be impossible to hide it from anyone, nevertheless from me. I know that he knows what has to be done and that I'm not going to stop until it's finished (he always resented my determination). We're seated across from each other, the only thing illuminating the room being the soft light of a lamp that's placed on a small coffee table next to Mycroft's newspaper. The sheets of the paper have becoming increasingly creased and crumpled from days of being re-read. (When your brother is, in all practicality, the entirety of the British government, it's amazing what you can get printed in a newspaper.) ' _SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS_ ', the front page reads, ' _Fradulent detective takes his own life_ '.

I can't stand them, newspapers.

  
 _Fairy tales._

  
When he finally speaks again, his voice seems to echo through out the room.

  
"You have plans, then?"

  
I don't see any reasoning behind lying at this point in time.

  
"No." That certainly causes a shift in mood; his voice turns sharp.

  
"You're expecting me to allow you to go into this blindly?"

  
Useless. Lying is useless.

  
"No." My eyes meet his. _(Doubtful. Angry. Worried?)_

  
"You're practically writing your own death sentence."

 

I snort. The irony causes my stomach to flip. The words "little faith" spring to mind. The look on his face is one that makes me want to stand and walk out.

  
 _(Caring is not an advantage.)_

  
"You have no idea what you're getting yourself in to. There are people out there that will be hunting you like an animal."

 _  
_I look away. He's telling the truth. My stomach flips once more and I swear that my eyes will forever be stuck on the whiskey-tinted stain on the carpet. _(Still fresh, almost. The previous night perhaps. Caused by an overfilled glass and a quivering grip. Fatigue. Unsettled. The cause: myself.)_ The next time I speak, I'm even surprised that my voice wavers.

"Yes. A what makes you think that I'm unaware of that?" I receive an accompanying grimace. Most would think that Mycroft is acting this way because he "cares" or he's "worried". We don't work like that. I force my eyes over to look at the bag that is sitting next to the door of the office we are in. It's obviously not a lot, just what Mycroft thought were the "essentials". Even I'm not sure how one would consider what "essentials" would be in this case. It's not very full, most likely containing changes of clothes and what he thought we be needed on my... well, call it what you will.

I can feel his eyes on me intently, studying me. A terse sigh passes his lips. He's giving up (on me?). I take that as a sign, my limbs finally forcing me to stand up and walk towards the backpack next to the door, those hawk eyes still following me. I turn back towards him, his shoulders now slightly slumped as he rests his head on top of a fist from both his hands. He looks tired. Exhausted. Not that I blame him much, or anything.

We don't say much. We don't say anything, really. That's what we do. He won't understand, he never will. Never has. It's something that I've frown accustomed to over the years. Our views of "work" are both very, very different. 

His head comes down and he rubs over his eyes with his hands, and I take that as my cue. Grabbing the backpack, I turn on my heel and out the door, and don't give it a second thought. I don't turn back, I don't hesitate.

_Sentiment._


	3. January 18th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reference, the chapter titles are the dates that the events in the chapter take place on. If there is a '//' between two different dates, the events of the chapter take place on those two specific days, not the span between them. Days are separated between the break in the chapter, if there is more than one day.

Observing has always been something that I depended on. It's the only thing I have to depend on, really -- the art of observation; seeing, accepting, remembering. It's become second nature at this point. That's all my life has been built on, to be quite honest -- habit, knowledge. Not that it's necessarily a bad thing. Of course not. Only at a certain point does it start to get bothersome. Once you've grown accostumed to this observing, the times you want it to leave you are the times when it's most prominent and the times when you just want everything to stop, you'd be so lucky. It's something that you have to bare with. Covering it up with sticky emotions is simply useless. Fogs the mind. Clouds the senses. Unworthy of your time, if you ask me.

It's times like this where I wish that the voices would shut off, perhaps not even come back on. That, I'd be content with.

If only I could be so lucky. 

The train I'm on seems to be much too clastrophobic, or perhaps thats just my accute desire to be elsewhere. There's a man sitting across from me, a battered book of soduku puzzles in his hands as he tries to study the numbers _(Back page folded under, the back puzzle attempted but not completed, perhaps because of the surplus of coffee stains and ink scribbles out of frustration. A tanline on his ring finger indicates the obvious. Poor marriage, if not recently ended. He's trying to get away)_.

Along with the Soduku man, there's a young mother towards my right attempting to console a squealing infant _(Stressed, but what for? Why would a woman along with a child be taking a train distance, even the destination? Family, perhaps. Or, maybe they have something in common with the Soduku man who has recently replaced his puzzle book with a mobile phone. Business, perhaps. The look in his eyes is tired, fatigued. Not only is he trying to get away, he's trying to get out)_.

I'm sitting in a seat in the far corner, next to the window, and I'm almost positive that the scenery at this point could not get any more monotonous. I turn away from the rest of the passengers who are crowded in the compartment -- businessmen and families alike -- and allow my temple to rest against the window pane, the cool touch seemingly soothing my headache away. I attempt to pull my mind away from the others, trying to get myself to focus on something that I could at least find some sort of solace in, which is all I really wanted, to be quite honest. I think of John. That's something that happens quite often. I think about how that if he were here with me, he'd tell me to keep my voice down, explaining that my deductions are potentionally offensive or far too personal (and I would retort with the fact that it's hardly my fault that they allow themselves to be so completely easily read). He'd probably let his eyes focus on the green of the scenery as it blurred past, a small, content smile on his face nevertheless. I would sit there in silent appreciation (something that I would never verbalize), something that only seemed to be known between the two of us. We didn't have to say what we thought of one another, it was simply a series of facts that we had taken from the other, tucking them away in the back pockets of our minds to remember later. We complimented each other in many different variations of the word. Some hated us for it. We didn't care.

It takes me a few moments to realize how terribly and pathetically heavy my eyelids are feeling after all of this time (when was the last time I slept?). I don't see any point in fighting back against them, though. So, I give in, albeit reluctantly, as I fall into some sort of state of sleep.

\--

_There's sand for miles, as far as the eye can see. The air is thick and rough as I press my lips together tightly, attempting to keep the granules out, but to no avail. Sand fills all entirety of my senses, choking up my throat and stinging my eyes, and I bring a hand up to swipe at it to attempt to relieve some of the irritation, which only seems to make it worse. The sun feels hot on the back of my neck, the heat and the shouts of the men around me doing absolutely nothing for the pounding feeling that I'm currently feeling against the front of my skull. If I could give any description of being in a living hell, this would be it. My own personal concoction of subconcious happenings. Before I have time to think, I can hear shots flying past, and the men and myself begin to run. I'm not exactly sure where we're running to, but the gear on our backs doesn't make the feat any easier. That's the only thing I have on my mind, though (for once): runrunrunrundon'tstoprunning._

_Some of the men would turn to take shots at the enemy (whomever they were), but I couldn't bring myself to. There's a sense of fear, of doubt, inside of me at this point. Doubting my abilities, my power -- doubting the fact that I'm going to make it out this. (I'm not.)_

_Before I have time to turn to even try, I can feel a sharp pain strike my left shoulder (firey, burning, scorching), accompanied by a warm, wet feeling seeping through whatever I'm wearing. I don't know I'm crying out until there's anxious faces looking back at me for a split second, and before I know it, my eyes screw shut, and I'm falling._

_Within seconds, I don't know how, but the air around my ears turns cool, thin, and what should have been the feeling of the gritty, hot sand hitting my face, is replaced with the feeling of cool, wet, hard concrete, accompinied by an unwavering blackness._

_\--_

"Sir?"

  
"Mrph."

  
"We're at your stop."

 

I force my eyes open (very reluctantly), being greeted by the dull lights of the train compartment and a slightly-irritated attendant, by the looks of it. I lean up, my neck stiff from the unfortunate position I was apparently in for the duration of the trip and turn my head just to find that we are, in fact, alone. My plans flood back to me along with reality, and I wave the attendant away. Ah, Amsterdam. Yes. Right. (How long was I asleep? Judging by the distance between Calais and Amsterdam... four hours, at most.)

As I exit the train, my limbs feel tense as I roll my shoulders about, suitcase in hand, senses alert. Amsterdam is a busy city, that's for certain. Then again, what would you expect from such a place? Walking out of the train station, there's a surplus of cars and taxis and other passengers, the air around me chilled. I silently curse the fact I no longer have my coat with me, just a (surprisingly) thick jacket covering nothing more than a dark t-shirt and jeans for trousers. It feels alien, like I'm a completely different person.

Then again, I suppose that is much of the point. I'm not Sherlock Holmes. (Your guess is as good as mine.)

I make my way to a bus stop on the side of the curb, leaning against the overhang, my hood covering my head to attempt to help with the chill (just barely, if any help at all. Ridiculous.) My hand digs out my mobile from my back pocket, and I'm not surprised to see that I have a multitude of messages from _brother, dear_.

Just what I wanted, I'm sure one can imagine.

 

> _He came in today. Mentioned something about going to see your grave. MH_
> 
>   
> _Again. MH_

  
I feel a pang in my chest and turn my mobile off.

  
_A chemical defect found in the losing side._

_\--_

I don't hate Amsterdam. Surprisingly, it's not a place that I had ever been. On one hand, it's a place that a person would see in magazines or photographs and would feel some sort of automatic, luring enchantment towards. On the opposite, Amsterdam is a place of scandal and carelessness. Each of those are equal of interest to me, both in their own ways. Don't tell anyone (not that anyone would ever be so surprised).

  
I'm wandering among the streets, strings of illuminated lights following the path above my head. I don't know where I'm going, or where I'm going to end up. The only thing that is making sense in my brain as these moments progress is the idea of getting to this Moran and feeling the satisfaction of his neck snapping.

  
Talk about motivation.

Everything about this city seems to be entirely too... eclectic. The sights, the sounds, the people. Though, in a strange way, it _is_ enjoyable. Different. Something about breaking away from the monotony of London is far too appealing, despite the circumstances of my situation. It's warmer on the streets than at the train station, and I allow my eyes to wander. Something about new places spikes a childlike curiosity in my brain, wanting to know everything, wanting to experience _everything_. No one here is wondering about the dark-clad figure walking the streets alone, and I can appreciate that. Everyone here is either known by everyone or completely alone. After years of the first, the second seems, admittedly, much more appealing. There'd only be one exception that I would be willing to make in that scenario.

Though, nothing about Amsterdam is dark during the night. There's multiudes of lights covering buildings and the bridges that extend over the rivers. No one else here has anything else to hide. Everything and everyone seems utterly... shameless, if you will. The fact is grotesquely charming. The streets of Amsterdam make you want to wander and wander, for days on days. There doesn't seem to be a cloud in the sky at this time of night, and there's a pleasant chill in the air that causes me to stuff my hands into the front pockets of my jacket. My head inclines upwards, towards the stars. 

_("Beautiful, isn't it?)_

  
_("I thought you didn't care about--")_

  
_("Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it.")_

 

I never quite thought that I'd be possible to feel lonely in a place like this. You'd think that after a life of _lonely_ , you'd grow used to the fact. The bittersweet, inevitable fact that loneliness is just that and that getting used to it is better than taking the risk of letting someone else in. (Only once has that aspect been different to me. One exception.)

  
After a time of walking, my thoughts are interrupted. I suddenly feel an uneasiness in my stomach. Something that makes me want to stop in my tracks, observe, take in, something different than the surroundings around me. My breath catches in the back of my throat, and I listen carefully, silent observing.

  
Someone is watching.

Wait, no.

  
Footsteps.

  
Following.

  
More footsteps.

  
Someone is following.

  
_Tap, tap, tap, tap._

  
How long have they been there?

  
Right behind me.

  
Not just another citizen, either.

  
I feel a rather familiar feeling in my chest, a rush, an excitement.

  
Let the games begin, then.


	4. January 18th II

The stranger seems to follow for quite some time, and doesn't let up not even once. The streets are particularly empty, especially this late at night, which doesn't make it too hard to catch on to their patterns. ( _The gait and heaviness of their steps says male, about middle-aged, if not slightly older, the steps are consistent and constant_ ).

I slow.

  
They slow.

  
I quicken.

  
They quicken.

 _Augh_. Someone's making this game a bit too obvious. It's almost slightly disappointing. Only bit of excitement I've seen this whole time and it's going to be over before I have the chance to appreciate it.

My hands shove into my pockets of my jacket and I adjust the backpack that's currently being supported by one of my shoulders, and I turn down a damp, sullen alleyway, the lights of the streets slowly beginning to disappate behind me. And, low and behold, the stranger follows.

It's almost too cliche.

I let a heavy sigh leave my lips as I pull my wallet out of my back pocket, turning on my heel to face them, holding it up between my thumb and my forefinger, still taking slow steps backwards. I make a point to swallow thickly, allowing my fingers to tremble just slightly around the billfold, my words quivering as I finally speak.

"Mate, it's... it's yours, if you want it. Honestly."

They continue to walk. Unsurprising. My steps are still slow, sure.

"R-Really... there's hardly anything in it. I've been broke for days. A few quid, probably, if that." (I'm not necessarily lying, either. Anything of importance, like money, is shoved into the bottom of the backpack underneath my clothes.)

  
After a few more steps, I stop, my arm still unmoving as I hold up the wallet, and even add my other arm for effect. The stranger is so close at this point that I can see a prominent, almost Cheshire-cat-like, grin on their face. Ah, so I was correct. Middle-aged, male. Obvious.

The expression is almost much too familiar in the worst way, though. They don't want the money.

"Ah, 's nice, very nice," He muses, taking the article from my fingers and examining it, flipping through the contents aimlessly, as if he's far too much amused with the situation. His accent is thick, rough (Cardiff, it seems like), almost that of a drunk, in a way. He begins to circle me as if I were an animal, like the fear was some sick form of amusement. "You _were_ tellin' the truth, then, eh? 'm almost su'prised, Holmes,"

Ah, there we are. Now we're getting somewhere.

"Bu', _obviously_ ," He does his best posh London accent, a mockery of yours truly, "We both know tha's not why 'm here." He's behind me and I can hear him toss the wallet aside, and that's when I make my move (we were both obviously thinking the same thing). I turn just in time to see a strong, bent arm coming towards me, and I retort by grabbing it tightly with both of my hands, holding it tightly above us. My attacker uses this chance to make a blow to my stomach, and I do the same to that arm, this time stepping behind him to twist it, and he grunts and winces in pain, his teeth gritting together. Without seeing it coming, he takes his foot and pushes it behind himself to hook it around the back of my knee, pulling forward to weaken the point of my leg, causing me to collapse to the ground. He lunges at me and I roll, using the momentum to step up to my feet, my hood now off of my head and my jacket hanging half over one shoulder. The stranger is back to his feet before I have time to retort, and he somehow manages to trap both my wrists in one hand and forces me back against the wall of the alleyway, pinning them above my head. His breath is sickening as he chuckles.

A game.

"Y'know, 'olmes," He muses, "We've been chasin' ya for a while, now," As he speaks, I can hear a sharp 'click' noise from behind him, and I'm almost completely unsurprised to seem a sleek, silver pocket knife being produced from his back pocket, now in his grip. He holds it up, as if he were admiring the craftsmanship of the object, as if it held all of his answers. But he shakes his head, mock sympathy tinting every one of his moments, and I can feel him press the cool steel of the blade against the skin of my neck, causing my head to press back against the wall, "'m almost a bit disappoint'd tha' you made it this easy, 'n the end..."

I'm not panicking, nor am I fighting back. There's a time for that, and this isn't it. Not yet. Not my shot. I'm going over tactics in my head ( _blow to the neck, the groin, perhaps a hard clap to the ear, if only I could get my bloody hands free_ ). He's strong. I swear he could have snapped my wrists right there and then if he really wanted to. 

 

"Poor sod," He laughs in my face, as if this is all child's play, and shakes his head again after a moment, as if he can see the fire in the back of my eyes. "No, no," He tisks, bringing the knife down from my neck and closing it, disposing of it back into his back pocket, "'m not goin' to get rid of ya," He tells me lowly, the same sickening smirk still on his face, "not right now, anyways. Not yet."

His words cause my brows to crease.

  
Of course.

  
 _Of course._

Before I have the chance to comment, I feel a hard blow to my lower stomach, and I can hear myself cry out for a moment (reluctantly), and then again as he repeats the motion (his knee). He lets my wrists free, and I take that to double over in front of him, my hands clutching my abdomen, and the sick bastard is _laughing._

"My, my," He muses, "they're goin to 'ave fun with you." Another kick, this time to my side, and I fall over. My mind is buzzing at this point.

_Think. Think, think, think, think, think._

I try to force myself back up with one hand, one still nursing my torso, and that just earns me another kick.

"Easy, 'olmes. You're not goin' no where." He chuckles. "No wonder Boss was so damn interested in you. A determined one, aren't ya?" Another kick, and I surrender onto my back. I'm disappointed to hear a groan coming from my lips.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid._

My eyes are squeezed shut tightly, the concrete cold against my back as I lay there, listening to my attacker taunt on and on and on. 

"Not much without tha' _soldier_ fella of yours, are ya?" The reality of his words sting worse than the physical wounds. I open my mouth to even attempt to speak, but that earns me a stomp on my chest hard enough that my breath catches, and everything about moving starts to feel laboured ( _Not hard enough to fracture, bruised artery, maybe. Assess later._ )

"Don't worry," He drawls on, stepping around me in a full circle, examining me like an artist who was seemingly proud of their work, "we're gonna take good care of ya, 'olmes." And with that, the last thing I see is the dark underside of a boot, accompinied by a blank canvas of black.

\--

_(Migraine. Breathing laboured due to chest blow. Head pounding from impact, hits and concrete. Not sure if it's unplesantly stuffy in here or if it's just my body betraying me. Coppery taste on my tongue. Warm trickle down my neck.)_

  
_(Open your eyes.)_

  
_(Don't be a coward.)_

  
_(Open.)_

  
_(Your.)_

  
_(Eyes.)_

  
_(Ah, ah, no, no. Bright. Too, too bright. Much too bright. Dark is better.)_

"Well, well, well. Look who we have here."

_(People in the room. I am not alone.)_

"I'm rather disappointed, honestly."

_(No, no. Singular. One. One person in the room.)_

"What did _he_ see in _you_?"

_(They're laughing.)_

  
_(German.)_

"Come on, now. Don't be shy."

_(German and Irish. Older than middle-aged. Male, obviously.)_

  
_(Come on, now, you pathetic sod.)_

  
_(Open.)_

  
_(Your.)_

  
_(Eyes.)_

  
_(Already.)_

_  
_"Ah. There we are."

As my eyes adjust, I finally come to the realization that the room that I'm in is unfortunately tiny and that I am, in fact, not alone. Oh, no, no. Definitely not alone. There's a salty, coppery taste in my mouth, and as I licked my chapped lips, the taste is unwavering. Blood. Everything about my body is aching. Every joint, bone. Everything. My hair is matted to my head, and I wouldn't be surprised if that was attributed to blood, either. Perhaps sweat. Hell, perhaps both. All I know is that it _hurts_. My chest is still rising and falling difficultly, hollow breaths leaving my lips, my throating feeling as if it's on fire. I attempt to move to wipe the substance off of my chin, only to discover that my hands have been bound behind my back, by a rough piece of rope, by the feeling of it. 

"Such a weakling. Didn't really put up much of a challenge. Poor thing."

  
My eyes finally make their way up, and I realize that I'm sitting in an office. A... decent office, by the looks of it. There's a bright light on the ceiling above me, causing the sensitivity from my headache to shoot up by a longshot. There's a desk a foot or two in front of me, and my eyes finally meet with the source of the voice.

Oh.

  
 _Oh._

  
"Morning, sunshine."

My jaw clenches, and my pursuer cocks his head back slightly, as if he's pretending to be even slightly intimidated. My hands twist into fists behind my back so hard that I'd be surprised if I didn't break skin. Not that I'd be able to tell, because at this point, there's a sort of anger making it's way through my veins that causes everything to just turn _numb_.

My voice sounds so hoarse that it makes the word forming on my lips sound utterly, completely, disappointingly pathetic.

"Moran." He can tell, too.

The wavering in my voice causes something of a wide, full grin to spread across his face as he leans across the desk, resting his head on his hands, watching me with an amused interest. "Someone has been doing their homework, haven't they?" His voice is taunting in a way that makes a shiver drop down my spine.

"That would seem to make two of us." I set my jaw, looking across the surface at him. He's a bit bigger than I had anticipated, to be quite honest. (Then again, that may have just been compared to James Moriarty). He's stacked with lean muscle and a short haircut ( _military, obviously_ ) and, a thin, short scruff covering his chin and cheeks and neck. The one thing that accutely catches my eye, though, is the long, thin stripe of a scar running from the top right of his forehead down across his left eye, and an accompanying one running across his nose. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that there's a half-full glass of scotch sitting on his desk, along with a stack of paperwork. Someone _certainly_ has been doing their homework.

"Ah, Sherlock, Sherlock," My name clicks off of his tongue as he pushes away from the desk slightly and then stands, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He's not wearing a suit, no, but a pair of charcoal grey dress trousers accompanied by a waistcoat of the same colour over a white dress shirt. The collar is unbottoned a few, as if he were a bussinessman just getting home from a long day of work.

Or, perhaps, his 'work' for the day was just about to begin.

Sebastian walks out from behind his desk (the nonchalance gives me a familiar sense of disgust), and I can feel his eyes on me. "My, my, my," He's chuckling lowly, and there's a fire in my veins, and I swear that my nails against my palms are drawing blood at this point. "I never thought I'd see the day where _Sherlock Holmes_ would be at the mercy of _me_. This is almost too good to be true. I'm honoured, truly." The sarcasm is incredibly hard to miss, and at this point, he's circling me. Like an animal. That's all I am to him.

An animal.

  
A pawn in his game.

"I bet you weren't expecting this," He continues to drawl on. He grabs his tumbler of scotch from the top of his desk and sips at it before he continues his circling, one hand still placed neatly in his pocket. "I don't know about you, but this was certainly worth the wait for me. Boss'd be so damn proud of me, I think." My teeth clench. "It's been a while, hasn't it? Last time I saw you, that soldier of yours was strapped to a vest of Semtex. We all got a hell of a kick out of that one, really, watching the two of you during that entire... shindig. God, Jim was brilliant." He laughs, though there's an ounce of contempt in his tone. There's a few moments of stagnant, bitter silence.

"Bastard." I hear him scoff under his breath  from behind me after a few moments as he takes a sip of scotch, his steps slow, sure, steady.  He stops in front of me and leans against the desk, crossing one arm over his chest, his eyes narrowed as he watches me carefully.

"Quite the place, _sir_." I let it roll of my tongue as thickly as I can.

"Isn't it?" He smirks. "I'm sure it's certainly a change from that dingy, claustrophic flat of yours. Well, not anymore." The smirks continue as he takes a sip of his drink, and I feel my muscles tense. "You see, while your brother and his men were doing all of their homework, we were doing ours. Though, we don't necessarily have any interest in him, or them. You know what we want."

"Me." The word is simple.

  
"Dead."

I actually manage to roll my eyes, a bored scoff leaving my lips. I'm really not quite sure what I was expecting at that point. Obvious. Boring. _Ordinary._

"Well, then," I huff, looking up at him, attempting to make my expression as unamused as possible _(lip still swollen, bleeding of the gums slightly, no memory of being hit anywhere near the jaw, must have been out unconcious for quite some time)_ , "You have me, don't you? Why are you waiting? Here I am. At your _mercy_. This is what you've been working towards, haven't you? Your _revenge_?" I let the words drip off of my tongue, letting them sink in. "Though, this is hardly my fault. The interest that your boss had towards me was what drove him to his demise. His _obsession_ with _me_ the thing that _killed_ him. Though, can you really blame him?" I smirk, the copper taste still heavy on my tongue.

I can tell that my words are beginning to get to him. The grip on his glass hardens, his jaw set tightly, teeth clenched behind his lips. I continue. 

_(Now we're getting somewhere.)_

"Shame that no one was there to stop him." I tisk. "Poor James. Driven by nothing but the malice of a forethought." 

Sebastian stiffens, his gaze ice cold as he stares me down.

"Not even his closest could stop him." It's strange to think that a man like James Moriaty had anyone that he considered close. It's even stranger to think that I was in spitting distance of the person themself. The look in his eyes at this point is exceedingly murderous. Ah, so there's the pressure point.

_(Try me, Moran.)_

  
_(I dare you.)_

  
_(Let's see what you're made of.)_

  
_(I didn't come all this way for nothing, now did I? Neither did you.)_

"Why are you doing what you're doing, then? Hm?" I ask, cocking my head to the side, my eyes narrowed all the same. "You _obviously_ didn't have too much impact on the poor sod if he _left_ you. Just. Like. That." I let the syllables fall off my lips, and I can just tell that his fuse is getting shorter and shorter and shorter at this point. His fingers are tightening around the glass in his hands, and I'd be surprised if I wasn't going to hear a sickening _crack_ sound followed by tiny, gold-coated shards of glass covering the floors within the coming moments.

Give it time.

I can see his jaw working, as if he's attempting to swallow something as sickening as the utter and complete truth. Bombs aren't too hard to figure out once you find their pressure point. The one little thing that makes them crack. 

There's a terse, tense few moments that pass between us, before I watch a long, straight-teethed grin spread across the military man's face. The light from above is allowing ghastly shadows to be cast among his features, and so the title is exceedingly fitting. I'd be lying if I said that my stomach wasn't even the least bit uneasy.

_(Timing.)_

His voice has that same, familiar tone to it once he speaks again, and it's quite obvious that he's attempting to put on a poor, pathetic act.

~~_(Deep down inside, I know that makes two of us.)_ ~~

"He was right about you, you know," Sebastian drones on, swirling around the ice cubes in his tumbler, the ice the only contents in the glass by now, "You're _ordinary_." There's almost a sullenness in his voice, as if he's even close to disappointed. His eyes have diverted to his glass, away from me. "In the end, that's all you ever were. That's all you're ever _going to be_. I don't know how the bastard thought that you were any--," He cuts himself off, his face twisting into some sort of a grimace, and he goes forth to seemingly erase the train of thought from his mind. 

  
The next thing that happens shouldn't catch me that much off guard, but it does.

He _laughs_. 

The sound is gradiose and full and fills the entirety of the room, though his eyes are still fixed on that damned glass of scotch, watching the ice cubes swirl around and around and around.

"You wanna know what the last thing he said to me was?" I really have absolutely no desire to know _(boring)_ , but I know that he's going to tell me, anyways _(not that I have much of a choice at this point)_ , "He said ' _You go get 'em, Basher_ ', and then he walked out. Just like that. Kinda fitting, don't you think?" The expression on his face is full of bitterness, and I swear that the look in his eyes is verging on the edge of acute insanity, as if recalling all of these occurances are like taking ten steps backwards. 

"I didn't really know what he meant, not at the time." He finally admits with a heavy sigh, and my eyes follow his glass as he sets out down on the desk, even the smallest sound of it hitting the surface seeming to echo through out the room. "Thought it was just another job, honestly. He'd send me out for days at a time, sometimes. I don't know what inclined the bastard to be so damned selfish that he had to go and do... whatever the hell that was." There's a hatred in his words. His speech pauses for a few moments, and the only sounds that are being heard are the breaths of us both, and I come to the conclusion that the silence between us is much more uncomforting than the conversation. A single, bitter sound leaves his lips, something like that of a laugh of contempt, and he presses his lips together tightly, exhaling heavily through his nose. 

"' _You go get 'em, Basher,_ '" I hear him mutter under his breath, his eyes still fixated on the crystal of the glass. After a few moments, all of his attention is turned back to yours truly, and the same familiar, empty smirk is back on his face. 

"You know what?" He muses aimlessly. "I think I finally found out what good ol' Jim meant by that, too." There tone in his voice is... uneasily satisfied, expectant. The air in my room is something that makes my stomach flip, admittedly. "And that's exactly what I plan on doing."

Sebastian pushes himself off of the desk, and I observe carefully as he begins the much too horrible cliche of pulling the few rings off of his fingers and dropping them aimlessly into the empty glass with the ice cubes, and then proceeds to crack his knuckles.

I keep my expression as stoic, as unwavering as possible as our eyes meet, but I can tell that the look in my eyes is challenging. They all _hate_ that look. Though, like I said before, I'm not one to turn down a good challenge. Oh, dear, no. That'd be too easy, wouldn't it? Definitely not while I'm here. Definitely not my purpose. 

There's another sickening sound of his bones cracking and stretching, and he has that same, awful smirk on his face nonetheless. The brute takes a few steps towards me, placing his steps surely, carefully, as if he's cherishing and relishing the precious moments that this is taking.

  
I don't know what gets in to me, but I can feel my hands relax behind my back, and I allow myself to be greeted with the inevitable reality that this is going to have to happen.

I'm not going anywhere, though. No, no. Not yet.

I have just enough time to watch Sebastian draw his hand back over his shoulder, his fingers forming a tight fist, before I'm greeted with the neuasiating sound and feeling of his embrace colliding with my jaw, my head snapping abruptly to the side with a sickening ' _crack_ '.

The sound that it produces is enough to shock me on it's own, nevertheless the sharp pain that I can feel beginning to spread through out the side of my face and neck. (Not enough impact to shatter the jaw, few crack or broken teeth perhaps.) The copper taste thickens, and I can feel a warm substance against the back of my throat. I have no choice but to cough to the side hard, a groan leaving my lips. Sebastian smirks, the look in his eyes absolutely wild (I assumed).

"It's a shame," He continues, his tone disgustingly nonchalant, "Not even that soldier of yours could save you." He tists. "Bit funny how that works out, don't you think?" By this time, my head is bowed (out of pain or exhaustion?), my chest rising and falling heavily. One would be able to tell that this is what he had been waiting for. This one opportunity. Before I have a chance to even respond, nevertheless look up, his next blow hits unyieldingly in my stomach. The force takes the breath right out of me, and I cough up another wave of blood.

(Is this what it's supposed to feel like?)

  
(Dying?)

  
I feel pathetic.

  
Absolutely pathetic.

There's heavy gasps leaving my mouth and they mix wih the now seemingly triumphant chuckles that Sebastian is producing, which are enough to knock me down just that much more. "You think he's dead because of you, don't you? You think that you're just clever enough that you could accomplish something like that?" He spats incredulously.

I don't know why, I don't know how, but I shake my head.

  
A silent plea.

  
(No, no, no, no, no, no, no.)

Sebastian is circling me again, and the next hit collides with the opposite side of my face abruptly. I can feel my eye beginning to swell, making my line of vision excessively blurry. Everything is a blurred collage of colour, and my head feels heavy. All of my senses suddenly go awry, too many things flowing at once. My mind is (attempting) to concentrate on the movements of the man around me instead of focusing on the obvious issue at hand -- trying to get out of here. Trying to get out of here alive, anyways.

  
Sebastian is saying something, though I'm not even sure what words are coming out of his mouth at this point, the only even remotely audible sound being my own heartbeat in my ears (something that's much too audible). Within seconds, I feel a sharp blow to the side of my head, and that's when I start experiencing loss of hearing in my left ear. Everything is blurred and hazy and disoriented, and then I feel a pair of hands at the rope around my wrists behind my back, cutting them off. I surrender forward weakly, dropping on to my hands and knees, heaving and groaning for breath as I cough blood onto the floor beneath me.

I force my head up, my limbs shaking. I feel two firm pairs of hands on my shoulders, pulling me back onto my knees, and the last thing I (barely) see is a fist coming towards my face, before it's all black.


End file.
